


Show Off

by RedBlazer



Series: There's a Great, Big, Beautiful Tomorrow (Shining at the End of Every Day) [1]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Coming Untouched, Established Relationship, Frottage, M/M, Meditation, No!Beast AU, POV Eliot Waugh, Season/Series 01, The sexy kind, but like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:00:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24883477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedBlazer/pseuds/RedBlazer
Summary: Eliot has a party trick. Eliot is a show off.Quentin has one too, but it's private. And Eliot gets to watch.Or the happy fun no!beast Season 1 AU where Eliot and Q are already dating and Eliot learns a super hot secret about his boyfriend.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Series: There's a Great, Big, Beautiful Tomorrow (Shining at the End of Every Day) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1802527
Comments: 41
Kudos: 177





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This will be two chapters and the second part should be posted later this week! Enjoy!!!

Eliot was a real show-off. That was just a known  _ fact.  _ He reveled in it, the fluttery nervous feeling of being watched, the satisfaction of delighting whoever was around with whatever he was doing, the inevitable praise that came his way. But he wasn’t in a mood for that tonight, not really. Tonight he was holding court in the middle of the living room, too lazy to do anything but sit in his seat and watch the party unfold around him. Watch  _ Quentin. _ On a return from the kitchen where he’d run off to talk to Alice about something that had occurred to him so quickly that he’d stopped in the middle of a sentence and then leapt up from his seat on the couch to go find her.

Squirrely little nerd. Eliot was incredibly head-over-dick infatuated with him.

Eliot had been left with Julia and some tree-hugger third year. Which was  _ fine. _ It was. It made the moment that Quentin reappeared in the living room all the better, what with the little flutter that his heart got to do. Eliot loved that little flutter. The sharp trill of it bouncing all through his body.  _ He’s back. Quentin’s here with his eyes and his hands. And his smile. _

“I’ll be right back--” Julia groaned, holding up her empty rocks glass in annoyance.

“Here--I’ll do you one better, Hermione.” Eliot cracked his knuckles and with an intricate little tut of his own making--first, six square ice cubes flew through the air all the way across the room from the bucket on the bar and dropped into the glass with a clear, sharp sound. Then Eliot snapped and a thin stream of tequila whizzed overhead like one of those dancing fountains, dropping into the glass as well. Finally the mixer Eliot had prepared earlier that day with the juice of about a ton of limes made a graceful little arc through the air and filled the glass without so much as a drop landing on the couch.

Three people actually clapped, with no rhythm whatsoever but still, they clapped. Eliot finished with a little flick of the wrist to spin the drink in the glass, mixing it all together and held his hands up on an  _ all finished _ gesture, smiling smugly to himself.

“Hey! Cool party trick!” Quentin bopped over, hands on the back of the couch over Julia’s shoulders. He just  _ loved it,  _ any little bit of magic he saw. It was endearing. An endless source of entertainment to watch Quentin light up at the littlest thing.

Julia snorted into her glass as she took a sip, then with a look up at Quentin standing above her she said off-handedly “Quentin’s got one of those--” she managed to get those few words out before Quentin quite literally threw himself over the back of the couch in his haste to get a hand over her mouth. He basically knocked the poor knowledge kid off the couch. Who cared when Quentin was squawking and his hair was just  _ everywhere. _ Julia elbowed him sharply as her margarita went flying through the air and managed to shout, “‘s a party trick alright!” from behind Quentin’s fingers.

“Would you just, like not!” Quentin dodged her batting hands much to Eliot’s delight as he was already working a cleaning tut before the drink would even wick into the upholstery. Quentin had somehow managed to get the upper hand here, Julia kept giggling under him and pulling on Quentin’s ear while he made ridiculous sounds and went red to the tips of his ears.

Julia shook her head under Quentin’s hand and wedged her hand under his armpit in what was clearly some kind of long-known defense, since Quentin’s jolted and squealed. His whole body locked up and she was able to push him off easily, brushing off her hands casually as Quentin went flying off the couch. He landed on the floor with a thump, thoroughly grumpy and blowing his bangs out of his face with a huff. Eliot smiled down at him from his respectable place in an armchair and patted his knee. 

Quentin flushed and looked around, as though anyone gave a fuck if Quentin sat in Eliot’s lap--Penny and Kady were practically dryhumping in the reading nook and they’d all done a bodyshot off of Margo earlier that evening, though Quentin had pretty much thrown himself down onto the couch with a pillow in his lap right afterwards. The proximity to Margo’s navel had that effect on, well, everyone. And Eliot was pleasantly buzzed enough to find it endearing, that Quentin could be so easily turned on still. Clearly, there was work to be done on his ruination.

Finally, Quentin got up off the floor, rubbing at his elbow absently, like he’d knocked it on the floor. And then Eliot had a lapful of Quentin--who was still glaring daggers at Julia, though she’d moved on to talking animatedly to one of the nature students who’d brought the good weed laid out in a cute little dish along with a pack of rolling papers on the coffee table along with the snack mix. 

Eliot rubbed Quentin’s back while he grumbled to himself and floated over another glass from the bar, then with another showy bit of telekinesis, three thin streams of liquid flew through the air, twisting together as they dropped into the glass, until there was a perfect lemon drop martini in his hands. Quentin liked his drinks absurdly sweet. Eliot teased him endlessly about his Bachelorette Party preferences, but Quentin only rolled his eyes good naturedly when Eliot floated a little pink umbrella over and dropped it over the rim of his glass. Ears all red, looking furtively from side to side, Quentin took a sip and leaned a further into the chair. He threw his legs over the armrest and leaned back against the other, a warm, heavy weight across Eliot’s thighs.

“Thanks.” Quentin mumbled. Eliot could barely hear him over the laughter in the room, the music playing. “It’s good. Your drinks are always good.”

“You’re welcome, Q.” Eliot kissed him just once on the lips, quickly pulled away. Quentin got nervous with too much affection in public. Not the good kind of nervous where it turned him on, the kind when he’d get all stammery and make an excuse to leave.  _ Eliot was working on it. _ He was content to just sit there with Quentin in his lap, chatting with Margo when she plopped down near them and people watching. It was a smaller affair, the bar could man itself tonight. He had other priorities.

It went on like that, Quentin seemed content to stay in his perch for longer than usual, piping up now and then in their conversation, which mostly revolved around throwing away all of Quentin’s clothes and doing their own two-person episode of Queer Eye on him. 

It was all a tease, Eliot had no intention of getting rid of  _ any _ of the floppy, comfortable clothing that Quentin lived in. He liked all of Quentin’s  _ endless  _ pairs of black jeans, his little t-shirts that would ride up his belly when he was stretched out on the couch, reading. Especially his underwear, Eliot wouldn’t  _ dream _ of replacing utilitarian little grey briefs with anything else. There’d been a weekend last month when somehow the  _ entire _ cottage had emptied out to go home, or on some drug trip that Josh had organized. Quentin had come downstairs with his bedhead in nothing but one of Eliot’s shirts and a pair of those grey briefs.

Eliot had chased him to the same reading nook where right now Penny fully had a hand up Kady’s crop top. And Quentin had laughed and ridden him right there, still in Eliot’s shirt with a bright beam of golden sunlight coming in from the window, making the tips of his eyelashes glow practically white.

_ So the briefs would stay. _

Still, it was worth it for Quentin to get all elbowey and then legitimately ask if Jonathan had an Alumni key. No. Weirdly, it was  _ Antoni _ who did.

A while later, things were winding down. Quentin hadn’t really moved from his spot in Eliot’s lap but he’d rested his head against Eliot’s shoulder and refused any more drinks after his second. Eliot gave him a squeeze and Quentin hummed back. Margo had gone off somewhere to thoroughly seduce some poor boy into going down on her for the foreseeable future. Julia had left a while ago, sitting in the nook with Penny and Kady discussing something in low voices.

“Wanna head to bed soon?” Eliot asked. Quentin stiffened against him as his voice broke through the silence they’d fallen into for a long time.

“Yeah, sure.” Quentin nodded against Eliot’s collarbone.

Eliot absently floated the empty glasses from the coffee table over to the bar to be cleaned in the morning. Quentin made an appreciative sound in the back of his throat. Seriously, so easy to please. That fond, warm feeling kept growing in Eliot’s chest. Margo had called him  _ ‘a soft bitch, the softest bitch’ _ between cheek kisses when she’d left the party earlier. Yeah, it was true. For Quentin, he was the softest bitch.

“So what is it, like you can pull a quarter out of my ear? I know that one.” Eliot asked, clasping his hands around Quentin at his hip so he was thoroughly surrounded.

Quentin gave a nervous little shake of his head, fidgeted. The pointer finger and thumb of one hand pinched down on his other hand, right at the base of his thumb. The place he would worry when he’d been at the same tut too long in practice and needed to ease the tension there.

“No--it’s stupid.”

“I don’t think your magic tricks are stupid.” Eliot said, resting his chin on Quentin’s head because it was right there. “You pulled a condom out of thin air the other night. That was pretty hot.”

Quentin huffed and wiggled absently, clearly he didn’t realize what effect  _ that _ would have on Eliot. “It’s n-not a magic trick. It’s something from before. Don’t worry about it.”

“Oh I’m  _ not _ worried,” Eliot said, squeezing Quentin tighter to him. “But now I  _ need to know.” _

“Promise you won’t make fun of me--”

“Not in any way that doesn’t get you all hot and squirmy.” Eliot said, holding up the Boy Scout Honor hand and everything. “Tell me. Tell me. Tell me.” Mostly sober now, he had the attention span to keep this going for hours until he wrangled it out of Quentin.  _ “Come onnnn.”  _ Eliot barely managed not to stick his tongue in Quentin’s ear to shock him into telling.

_ Because it’s gotta be good. _

Quentin wiggled out of the tight circle of Eliot’s arms. They were eye to eye from this vantage point, perched in Eliot’s lap. Eliot liked it even more when Quentin was bouncing up and down, throwing his head back and stammering while he rode Eliot’s dick but  _ this,  _ this was good too. Even the little way Quentin bit his lip and cast his eyes to the side briefly.

“Do  _ not _ say a-anything,” Quentin stuttered, poking him in the chest because  _ he meant business _ . Eliot nodded, pushed Quentin’s hair back out of his face and held onto the back of his neck with a gentle hand. He liked that. They both did. “I can--um, it’s not  _ really _ a party trick--Julia only knows because, well because she’s  _ Julia _ and she knows everything about me.  _ But she’s never seen it.” _ Eliot nodded, trying for a casual, ‘listening boyfriend face’ when he was  _ really _ about two seconds away from trying out that move Julia had used on Quentin earlier until he spilled whatever secret he’d been keeping from Eliot. His boyfriend. The guy he wasn’t too shy to floss in front of. That or he was just going to have to ask Julia in person. “Okay--so when I was in college I tried going off my meds  _ which was a huge fucking mistake _ and I’ll never do it again. And I tried all these things to manage my anxiety, like um, meditation. Meditation, that’s a thing people do.”

Eliot’s eyebrows rose so high he wondered if they would ever come down. Quentin kept talking, staring down at the cuffs of his hoodie where he was worrying at a hole forming in the material over and over again.

So he was  _ really nervous then. _

A bit of tension melted away from Quentin when Eliot tightened his grip on the back of his neck, ran his nails over the short downy hairs where they curled a bit in humidity.

“So I tried it--didn’t really work. And I ended up going back to Jersey for a month when I went back on my meds. Anyway, that’s not really the point. There was this  _ thing _ I saw when I was doing my research  _ on the meditation _ \--I wasn’t looking for it, um you know?” Quentin swallowed hard, his knees were practically vibrating.  _ “Just spit it out, Jesus.” _ Oh he was talking to  _ himself now, _ this was  _ good.  _ “Okay fine--I can make myself come without touching myself. Like at all.”

He nearly knocked Quentin out of his lap in shock, Eliot had to wrap both of his hands around Quentin’s shoulders to steady him because  _ fuck.  _

He could do  _ what now?  _

Without his what? 

_ How? _

Quentin blushed furiously and shook his head, shrugging like  _ oh yeah, you know, this is a little weird and embarrassing.  _ Eliot had to kiss the little flat line of his mouth until it went lax and opened under him. Quentin let out and “Umph--” in shock but quickly got his metaphorical feet under him and leaned into it, one of his hands slipping into the open neck of Eliot’s shirt right there in the living room while Todd was passed out on the floor missing a shoe.

Eliot licked into his mouth, visions of Quentin panting and writhing all  _ alone _ somehow now dancing in his head. He was dizzy with it, grasping Quentin’s firm little ass with his other hand to crush their bodies even closer together. So he could taste more of the lemon and alcohol from Quentin’s lips, feel his sounds against Eliot’s mouth.

Then, abruptly Quentin tensed under his hands and he pushed Eliot away with two firm hands on his chest. “Not here, El. Come on.” he panted against Eliot’s lips. Speaking the words right into Eliot’s mouth.

That--

Yep!

He really did nearly dump Quentin out of his lap then in his haste to get up, legs a little asleep from Quentin’s weight resting on them for so long. They stumbled into each other, Quentin snorting a laugh, grasping Eliot’s hand so they wouldn’t somehow get separated on their way as they careened up the stairs up to Eliot’s room. At some point Quentin pushed him up against Kady’s door with a thud for the express purpose of planting a desperate little kiss to Eliot’s chin, but then Penny started shouting from inside the room and they broke away, giggling.

By the time they made it to Eliot’s room, they were both too keyed up to really do anything other than collapse into bed together fully dressed. Too frantic for more than to unbuckle and unzip their pants until Quentin could get _on top of him._ Both of them sitting up, a parody of what they’d been doing just moments earlier, Quentin straddled him. Undulating his whole body in Eliot’s lap, grinding against him saying things like, “Later--I’ll show you. Promise.” “Pull my hair” “Fuck--I’m not gonna last.” in Eliot’s ear while the tension grew and grew.

He pulled Quentin’s hair, it was nice to get the invitation but he didn’t need it at this point.

Eliot worked them both together in his other hand, the dirty wet sound of his hand moving over them both filling the room. So hot in his clothes it only made everything feel all the more intense and passionate.

Quentin came first--always came first, and then usually came again later, always looking so  _ shocked _ with his sweet round mouth and glassy eyes. And the sight of him, with his pants open and his dick pulled over the top of his briefs, the barest slice of his tender stomach all soft and heaving as he spilled all over both of them sent Eliot over the edge. He came, rocking his hips up so hard Quentin bounced against him, threw his arms around Eliot’s shoulders and face planted into his neck as they both recovered.

“Gross,  _ sticky.” _ Quentin complained when Eliot flopped back onto the bed and Quentin went with him, so they were crushed together, smearing come and sweat all between their bodies.  _ “Ugh.” _

“Lazy, messy boy.” Eliot replied, kissed Quentin’s temple and then squeezed his butt appreciatively, “I have to  _ remind you to shower.” _

“Lush.” Quentin shot back, and Eliot really  _ did  _ need to get Quentin moving or try to get him off again or he was gonna fall asleep in the next minute. He was already going all lax and somehow doubling his weight against Eliot’s chest. “Good party.”

Eliot chuckled. All Quentin had  _ done  _ at said party was flee a conversation, eat some snacks, lose a wrestling match against his best friend on the couch, and then tell Eliot about the  _ only _ way he himself might ever get into meditation. Is  _ that _ what the psychics got up to in their weird little crystal pyramids and silent reflection booths? They were  _ barely  _ large enough for one person after all. Eliot had gotten a crick in his neck from sucking dick in one of them before. It had been bad enough that he’d had to go to the infirmary. What could he say?  _ He was lanky! _

“Good party.” Eliot agreed. He leaned his head against Quentin’s temple and worked a tut to clean away the mess between them. Quentin made an annoyed growl. He liked it, liked the reminder on his skin. But Eliot was already going to have to bully him into brushing his teeth and drinking a glass of water before bed, he didn’t need to try to clean Quentin up after he’d gone to sleep so that he wouldn’t know. There was a small window in which that particular tut worked, and when it had closed Eliot had to resort to a warm washcloth like a muggle. “Come on. You’re heavy.”

“You call me tiny--like all the time.” Quentin grumbled and somehow grew  _ heavier.  _ Maybe that was his discipline, the manipulation of his own mass. It would explain a lot about how he could move Eliot just about anywhere he wanted when he put his mind to it--when Quentin didn’t want to be held down. Which was really most of the time. “I’m tired.”

Eliot groused at him, “Come on, Coldwater!” and tipped him off of Eliot’s body and back onto the bed. He glanced down at the state of Quentin’s open jeans, his dick now soft between his legs. Kinda wanting to get on the floor and take him into his mouth, feel him harden back up again but he _ was also _ tired and wanted to curl up behind Quentin’s compact little body and fall asleep. “Up with you!”

Quentin flapped annoyed hands at him. Eliot settled for getting him out of his clothes while Quentin was  _ no help _ at all. He threw his own into the hamper. They both crammed into the tiny attic bathroom he had all to himself to brush their teeth together. Then, finally after they each drank a glass of water, Eliot threw back the covers and they both settled in to sleep, Quentin’s body settling perfectly into the cradle of Eliot’s. They shared one pillow. Because Eliot was totally gone for Quentin. He pressed his nose into Quentin’s hair like a weirdo and breathed in the scent of him, closed his eyes, and went to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The epic conclusion to our two-part story.
> 
> Also, this is a real thing you can Google.

It didn’t happen the next day  _ or even that week _ mostly because Eliot was so fucking turned on by the idea that Quentin could somehow make himself orgasm with no hands at all that Eliot couldn’t stop pawing at him at every opportunity. And Quentin wasn’t the kind of person who believed in delayed gratification. So they were distracted.

Quentin Coldwater was a big old slut for Eliot. It was  _ awesome _ and sometimes a little much for both of them. He had eyes too big for his stomach at the proverbial sex buffet--he would get all worked up over wanting more and more and more until Eliot had to basically tell him that his dick was going to get chafed if they went on any longer.

But at 24, Quentin was making up for  _ lost time.  _ For one-sided little relationships. Awkward one night stands. Trading furtive dorm room hand jobs.

And Eliot was  _ Eliot _ so it wasn’t exactly a hardship to fuck his boyfriend whenever Quentin wanted him to.

After a few months when unofficial and casual had become  _ boyfriends _ , Quentin had told Eliot that he’d gone as long as a year before without even really  _ thinking  _ of sex, that his body just kind of forget it when he was depressed and he had no sex drive. It came in great big waves that lasted anywhere from weeks to months. Quentin had ‘Nocturnal Emissions’ during those times when he didn’t even think about sex at all--that’s what he’d said, blushing when Eliot had asked if he went off like a geyser the first time he came after so long. Quentin got weirdly formal about sex sometimes, including a good old fashioned wet dream. Which was just  _ another  _ weird thing that Eliot found stupidly hot about Quentin.

That he had wet dreams and called them ‘Nocturnal Emissions’.

To name a few other things on that list:

Whenever he got his hair cut, Quentin somehow  _ always _ ended up with his bangs just a bit too short to be pulled back. So they were  _ always _ in his face and he constantly seemed annoyed by this. Eliot didn’t mention it.

Quentin  _ loved _ and was absolutely terrified of all horror movies. Even ones he’d seen before. He’d practically compress himself down into a lump of coal by Eliot’s side in bed when they watched one on Eliot’s illegal laptop. Then he’d  _ insist _ it was fine to turn all the lights off. Somehow the bedside lamp always remained a dim glow and neither acknowledged it. And Eliot would wake up every time in the middle of the night to Quentin all turned around and rubbing himself off on whatever part of Eliot he could find. They’d have delightful, intense life-affirming orgasms and Quentin would pass out again immediately, snoring with his mouth open and his nose all smushed in Eliot’s armpit.  _ Then,  _ Eliot would turn out the light.

_ He just put things in his mouth, all the time.  _ Quentin licked his fingers clean and it should have been  _ gross _ but it wasn’t. All of the strings on his hoodies were an obliterated  _ mess. _ And the pens, don’t get Eliot started on the pens. He shouldn’t be allowed to eat ice cream in public.

Quentin’s dancing. He was a  _ terrible _ dancer and he knew it, but still somehow didn’t grasp how bad it actually was. It was so uncoordinated and off beat. But it still somehow turned Eliot on from behind the bar when he watched Julia pull him over to their little dance floor and they’d break out their little  _ routines _ that involved too much jumping and not enough hip thrusting.

Coffee--Quentin knew how to make it, but he wouldn’t. He didn’t even really want  _ Eliot _ to make the coffee either; he wanted Kady to do it. Because for some reason when Kady made the coffee, it was intensely dark but not nearly as bitter as it should have been. Q was limited to two cups or he’d skitter off into orbit around the earth for the next twelve hours.

So yes, thinking about Quentin waking up all sweet and bleary-eyed having just come in his underwear was a hot fucking image. The thought that Quentin’s body had just decided he needed that release with a nice, relaxing dream. Would he lay there for a minute coming to terms with it before he threw back the covers and looked down at the state of himself?  _ Or _ would nervous little Q immediately go shaky and close his eyes, peel his ruined underwear down his legs with his eyes closed so he didn’t have to see?

_ Enquiring minds wanted to know. _

But Eliot couldn’t really  _ ask _ Quentin to do that. It was involuntary. Plus, Quentin hadn’t exactly sounded all that excited about having all those wet dreams when he’d told Eliot about them in the first place. Mostly, it meant he’d had to do a lot more laundry while he was depressed, which was like an Olympic event in the best circumstances. But Eliot guessed that if he’d had someone  _ there  _ with him, under the covers, someone who got to see his quiet breathy sounds devolve into broken little moans, then woke Quentin up with wet little kisses behind his ear right after he came--so that he could actually enjoy the release of all those brain chemicals--it might be a different story.

_ Not that Eliot had thought about it to an extreme degree. _

Just that--you know, maybe he’d done a little research into collaborative dream magic. He was allowed to have  _ extracurricular interests.  _ Though, the knowledge students would probably never recover from Eliot standing before the card catalog and demanding a series of keywords out loud that grew lewder and filthier by the second.

Let’s just say that Eliot was working on a few projects--ones that would make Encanto Oculto a much more interesting experience if he could convince Quentin to come along with him next year.

Certainly they wouldn’t need a tribute for the elders if he could get Quentin to do his  _ party trick _ for them.

But first be needed to do it for  _ Eliot. _

Even just  _ looking  _ at Quentin throughout the week was torture. Sitting there all innocent with his notebooks and  _ his mouth _ while he worked on his homework spread out on Eliot’s bed, and Eliot had to sit there  _ knowing _ what Quentin could do with that broken brain of his. Besides, you know, the general way Quentin made everything better and brighter and was so smart and a real weirdo with that mind of his. Besides those things. It was a legitimate act of torture.

Quentin just kept looking up at him and going,  _ “What?”  _ in an oblivious huff. 

Then Eliot would say “Nothing.” because he was  _ trying _ to let Quentin set the pace here, not drag him into anything he didn’t want to do.

Eventually, Quentin would shake his head and go back to his work and Eliot would try to mentally determine  _ exactly _ which sounds Quentin would make while he did it--the meditation.

Eliot Googled it in the tech shack late one evening. He got so far as a Wikipedia article for ‘Energy Orgasms’ and had to close the whole thing down and wipe the hard drive out of a weird spike of shame. He’d wait, wait for Quentin to do it. It would be better that way if he didn’t know what to expect. No spoilers.

And when it  _ did _ happen, well, Eliot hadn’t expected it to be in the middle of the afternoon on a Wednesday. Eliot had no afternoon classes that day and Quentin’s had been canceled due to a sentient Keurig scalding the staff who were trying to subdue it.

So when Quentin had sauntered back into Eliot’s room two hours earlier than expected, dropped his messenger bag and nonchalantly asked, “So do you want to see it--the party trick?” Eliot had cleared his bed of the laundry he’d been neatly hanging in one big push of telekinetic energy so that it all landed in a big lump back in the hamper. “I’ll take that as a yes?” Quentin asked.

Eliot nodded.  _ Yes. Yes. Yes. _ Quentin shrugged and approached, leaning up for a kiss. Eliot tried to keep it chaste, he really did. But he’d had visions of Quentin sprawled out and moaning, frolicking around in his brain for far too long. So maybe he bit down on Quentin’s bottom lip the way Quentin liked and ran his hands down the strong, smooth planes of his back until Quentin trembled and pushed him away gently.

“Okay--no one’s ever, I haven’t done this for anyone. It’s kinda boring. Sometimes it takes a while.” Quentin said. Like he was explaining a dental procedure and not Eliot’s #1 trending fantasy of the week.

Also,  _ boring?  _ How could watching this be boring? Like anything that Quentin did was ever boring.

“I wanna see you, Q.” Eliot told him, took Quentin’s hands in his own and squeezed them. “Just tell me what to do.”

Quentin nodded, just once up and down. “You can lay here, with me if you want. Or um, the chair is fine.” he nodded at the wingback chair by the window where Eliot liked to flip through his magazines while smoking a joint. “I’m gonna get undressed, I guess? I kinda have to concentrate though, so maybe don’t touch me unless I ask you to.” Quentin’s mouth pressed into a firm line, “Jesus, I can’t believe I’m actually asking you to  _ not _ touch me.”

Eliot pressed the back of his hand to Quentin’s forehead, “No fever, Q. Don’t know what to tell you there.” Quentin frowned up at him. Eliot smoothed his thumb over the lines around his mouth.

_ “Ha ha.” _ Quentin grumbled. He shook out his hands and looked down absently at the bed, like he was sizing it up for a fight. “You can talk to me though, if you want. I’d like that.”

Eliot nodded, gripped the tab of Quentin’s hoodie zipper and looked him in the eye. Quentin nodded and let Eliot draw it down and then push it off his nicely sculpted shoulders. 

Then his brain kind of shorted out because Quentin was undressing right there in the sunbeam streaming through the window, biting his lip while he bent down to untie his shoes and hastily throwing his mismatched socks towards the hamper. Then Quentin undid the button of his jeans and then the zipper, sliding them off his legs. Finally, he pulled off his t-shirt (white this time) which was kind of a shame because Eliot could see his nipples just a bit through the fabric and wanted to bite at them.

_ But now wasn’t the time. _

Not when Quentin was standing there in his underwear, thumbing at the band of them with a concerned look on his face that Eliot kissed away with a questioning sound, hands curling around Quentin’s hips.

“I um, leave these on. Sometimes.” Quentin said, looking down at his body standing so close to Eliot, who was still fully dressed. Through, not particularly formal at the moment. He’d taken off his vest and tie when he got back to his room earlier. So Eliot was just in his white button down, black trousers, and maroon suspenders. He liked it, seeing so much of Quentin’s skin while he was still dressed.

“Whatever you want,” Eliot told him, pressing his fingers a bit under the elastic waistband of Quentin’s underwear then smoothing over top. “You’re so gorgeous, baby.”

_ Eliot was the softest bitch. _

Quentin just rolled his eyes, shook his head, and said, “I’m gonna--” before he turned away from Eliot and climbed up on the bed, laying himself down on top of Eliot’s cerulean Egyptian cotton duvet.

Eliot stood there, at the foot of the bed, watching as Quentin made himself comfortable, just stretched out over the covers. Legs straight out and closed at the moment, arms resting at his sides, his fingers rubbing the fabric between them absently. Quentin shook his head a little, pressed it back into the pillow as he settled.

“Okay--So I’m just gonna close my eyes here for a bit, do some deep breathing.” Quentin said. He wiggled his toes. “This could take a while--or it might not happen. So just, know that.”

Eliot nodded tightly, grasping the wrought metal of the footboard so he wouldn’t reach out and encircle one of Quentin’s ankles and just drag him closer.

Because this was already  _ too much.  _ Quentin was just lazing there in the wide sunbeam cast over Eliot’s bed, belly up like a kitten. He was closing his eyes and taking long, deep breaths; in through his nose, out through his mouth. Eliot watched the gentle rise and fall of his stomach.

Sure they’d been naked around each other now too many times to count, but when did Eliot really ever get to just  _ look _ at Quentin without all his parts moving and whining, begging to be caressed.

Eliot still marveled at the toned body that Quentin had kept such a secret until he’d finally seen the other man naked. Quentin’s oversized and baggy wardrobe just created such a dichotomy between the man the world saw and the skin that was just for  _ Eliot. _ Quentin had biceps that flexed and fit so nicely in Eliot’s hands and hidden muscles in his lightly furred stomach that really only made an appearance when he was breathing heavily and starting to sweat. All swathed in soft cotton.

There were little dips over his hip bones and two perfect shallow dimples right above his ass. Just the right place for Eliot to rub his thumbs into when he had his hands clasped around Quentin’s hips, guiding him.

Nevermind the fact that Eliot could practically span Quentin’s waist with his hands. Like he didn’t think about  _ that _ day in and out. If he could get Quentin into a trim tailored waistcoat--Eliot would spend his evening with his hands clasped possessively around that waist with Quentin in his lap. Then finally, undress Quentin with his  _ teeth. _

Quentin’s  _ legs. _ Sturdy with  _ really good calves _ . Much nicer feet than Eliot’s own, if he was being honest. And hair just  _ everywhere.  _ Across the tops of his pale feet (which shouldn’t have been so hot, but  _ who cared?)  _ then dotting up his ankles, those calves that Eliot had sunk his teeth into many times before, finally his firm thighs that were perfectly at home wrapped around Eliot’s head or his torso, egging him on. There was nothing that Eliot liked more than slotting himself on the bed between those thighs, down low and getting his mouth on Quentin for as long as possible. Sucking him down, leaving blooming purple marks right at the tender stretch of skin where his leg met his hip, opening him up with his tongue until Quentin was begging him with “ _ More!” _ “Too much--” and “Fuck, you need to fuck me, El!” in the same breath. What an absolute joy it was to press his thumbs into the tight muscles of Quentin’s hamstrings and guide those knees up and back until Quentin was spread out and  _ keening  _ for it.

Now though, he was all laid out and relaxed, or at least  _ getting there. _ And Eliot kind of felt like a big old creep standing there at the foot of the bed, but did sitting down in his chair really make him any  _ less _ of a voyeur in this situation? Not really. Not while he was just so  _ aware _ of how much noise his own breathing was making, not wanting to disturb Quentin while he was getting himself settled.

Eliot ended up sitting on the bed, up against the headboard with his ankles primly crossed. Quentin’s eyelids flickered briefly at the movement. His hands opened and closed at his sides. Finally Quentin settled again, he rolled his shoulders down against the bed with a sigh.

Whatever Quentin was doing, seemed like it was working on  _ Eliot _ as well. He felt himself being drawn into the trance of Quentin’s breathing, trying to match it with it’s long steady inhales and exhales. Only, Eliot couldn’t feel himself  _ relaxing. _ No, it was like he was picking up all the tension that Quentin was shedding with every breath.

Eliot had spent a lot of time thinking about what it would look like, when it started, whatever  _ it _ was. The nebulous concept of Quentin getting himself off with his brain. In class. In the shower. At lunch with Margo until she’d slapped him upside the head and told him to snap out of it.

What Eliot hadn’t been prepared for was how subtle it was. Quentin was laying there beside him, still apart from the movement of his chest and stomach with his breathing and then he added to that movement, the gentle tensing of his thighs, his core. Clenching down on the inhale, letting go on the exhale. Over and over again. Push starting some kind of momentum inside him.

He watched, the muscles of Quentin’s thighs jumping with tension as his breathing grew louder, heavier. Quentin even let out the smallest, whine under his breath every now and then. A flush spread itself across his neck and chest. Quentin kept going on and on, building tension and all Eliot could think about was how good it would have felt to be  _ inside _ Quentin when he clenched down like that over and over again. Making himself even more tight and inviting than he already was.

Eliot was so caught up in watching Quentin, had grown so used to the measured rhythm that he was wholly unprepared for Quentin’s breath to stutter and for him to let out a long, raw moan on an exhale. He kept his muscles all coiled up, hands bunching at his sides. 

_ And that’s when Eliot saw it. _

There against the plain grey cotton of Quentin’s a tiny dark grey wet mark  _ growing _ slowly with every passing second and under the fabric, subtle pulsing movements. Like Quentin was starting to get hard.

“Holy shit--” Eliot muttered, folding his arms over his chest so he could go full chin-hands as he ogled his boyfriend.

“Ha ha  _ unggh--”  _ Quentin responded, finally releasing his muscles to fall lax again. He went back into his old rhythm, harder though. Faster breaths and his hands began clenching at his sides along with his thighs.

“Oh my god, I can’t believe you’re doing this, baby.” Eliot shook his head. Because Quentin just kept  _ going.  _ He was leaking steadily into his underwear, the wet stain there growing and growing until it made the fabric cling to the outline of Quentin’s sweet dick, flipped up towards the waistband. “What does it feel like?”

“Um, like tingly everywhere? Inside?” Quentin said, rocking his hips now a little into the bed. “Feels so good. There are w-waves, but I gotta build them up more.” Quentin kept his eyes closed. A familiar look of pleasure written across his features in the turned up corners of his mouth, the little line of tension between his brows.

Eliot could feel himself begin to thicken against his own thigh. There was the urge to press the heel of his hand over himself, ease some of the tension there. But if that meant taking an iota of attention away from Quentin, it wasn’t worth it. Not when he was breathing out these hot, high pitched moans with every breath. When he started leaking so much that Eliot could  _ see _ the little clear blurts of precome cresting over the fabric of his underwear before they absorbed into the fabric. Quentin’s stomach was shuddering with his every breath now, the soft outlines of his abdominal muscles glowing in the light streaming through Eliot’s windows.

_ Quentin’s toes were curling up near the footboard. _

Quentin was getting really  _ into it,  _ reaching that level of desperation usually reserved for being under Eliot’s body around round three. Limbs twitching and jolting at random. Little contractions all through his body. Each movement coupled with more and more precome leaking out of him. Quentin’s dick was a sweet thing, not particularly long but nicely curved and thick. He was nowhere near hard in his grey briefs, but the head was dangerously close to peaking out from under the waistband.

Then, like Eliot had reached out telekinetically and  _ made it so,  _ the barest sliver of the candy pink head of Quentin’s cock wormed itself out into the open air of Eliot’s room. Thank  _ God _ Eliot had chosen to sit at the top of the bed, looking down Quentin’s body, otherwise he might had missed it. And that would have been a shame.

“Look at you.” Eliot said. “You’re so wet. You usually are,  _ Jesus _ Q, baby. There’s so much of it now.”

Quentin had the audacity to chuckle through a groan, the beginnings of a little clear pool of precome formed on his belly as he twitched, more of the head peering out to thoroughly tease Eliot. “If I--have something,  _ fuck--in me _ , it’s even worse.”

A bolt of fire cut through Eliot right to the core. If he had to sit through this  _ again _ while Quentin was all stuffed full of a toy or a vibrating plug, Eliot might never fully recover all of his brain function.

Quentin kept going and going. It seemed limitless the heights he was taking himself. His nipples hardened against the air at one point and it took everything Eliot had not to lean across him, suck one of them into his mouth. That would  _ really _ set Quentin off. Quentin looked warm to the touch, sweat gathering in the hollow of his throat and at his temples.

“Wh-what are you thinking?” Eliot asked, wetting his dry lips.

Quentin moaned and rode out the waves of his pleasure, then finally gasped out, “That I really, really wanna come. So badly. About the time y-you did that thing on the patio.”

“I bet we could do it again--” Eliot said. “Get you out there right in the sun with all your clothes off, throw up another shield charm so no one would see or hear. You could make all those sweet sounds for me out in the open again. Let me watch you again.”

Quentin shook his head against the pillow, still grinding down over and over again with every breath. It was a lot like watching him get fucked by some invisible dick, what he looked like under Eliot, just taking the other person out of the equation entirely.

“Yeah--I’ll do it for you, f-feels so good.  _ Eliot.” _

It seemed to crest when Quentin let out a broken sound and reached down to pet at his own thighs, keeping his hands away from his dick at all costs, but he kept running his hands roughly up and down the outsides of his thighs. Then, holy shit, he was spreading his legs on a particularly rough breath, hips lifting off the bed and hanging there for a full ten seconds while Quentin panted brokenly, muscles coiled tense and trembling. Quentin rocked back down, planted his heels on the bed so his legs were bent now, spread wide and inviting. Eliot had been content to stare down at the growing pool of precome on Quentin’s stomach and the slow thickening of his cock coupled by the occasional twitch of his balls, but  _ now-- _ now all he wanted was to peel off those underwear so he could get a good look at Quentin clenching down on nothing. His hole winking out from between his spread legs.

“I’m close.” Quentin blurted. “I can--I can let go. I can do it. C-can I?”

Why was he asking? Why did the asking make Eliot say ‘no’ just to see what would happen? But--another time.

“Do it, come on, Quentin. Please. I want to see it. You look so fucking hot, baby.” Eliot’s ears were burning.  _ He  _ was sweating and out of breath. They hadn’t even  _ touched. _ It had been like an hour.  _ An hour. _

Quentin whined, nodding to himself, his body twisting against the bed. Hands clenching against his inner thighs, leaving white indentations in his skin, nails cutting half moons into the tender skin there. Quentin gave a great big heaving cry, pulled out from somewhere primal and sacred and then he was  _ coming. _

Coming there against his stomach, weak pearlescent streaks that didn’t go the same distance all the way up to his chest like when he took himself in hand between their bodies, but there was just so much of it. He kept coming and coming, his body contracting in waves over and over again it almost looked painful. Quentin was heaving great big wet breaths, now out of sync with the shuddering of his muscles.

Finally, after an agonizing amount of time, Quentin dropped back down to the bed, letting out a broken sigh. Quentin pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes and  _ laughed _ .

“Holy shit.” Quentin said. Every now and then an aftershock would wrack his body and send a leg or an arm twitching. “That was um, that was good.”

Eliot scooted down the bed, “That was fucking amazing.” he said. 

Quentin smiled dopey and wide, finally blinked his eyes open and winced at the light. Eliot flicked his hand at the curtain, drawing it closed so they were swathed in the rosey glow of the sun through the semi-sheer raw silk.

“El, you can touch me now, s’okay.” Quentin muttered but made no move to touch Eliot himself. Pillow Princess. Instead, Quentin’s legs fell limply to the bedspread and he let out a contented sigh.

Eliot pulled Quentin to him, thumb hooking between Quentin’s lips along the way, so when they met, it was already open-mouthed and desperate. Eliot licked into him, everywhere he could taste Quentin. He reached down and ran a hand through the mess on Quentin’s stomach, smearing it up across his chest with a growl that he didn’t recognize. Quentin moaned into his mouth, a hand flying up to grip Eliot’s hair, to keep him there.

Like an  _ animal _ Eliot pressed himself against Quentin’s side, the fabric of his clothing rasping with friction as he rutted into Quentin’s hip.

Quentin wrenched his mouth away from Eliot’s, panting against his cheekbone. He reached down and then one of those strong, square hands of Quentin’s was on Eliot’s hip, urging him harder _ faster _ against him. Eliot’s hand was so _ messy, God,  _ came up between their bodies and then he was holding Quentin’s throat there, not pressing down, just feeling the bobbing of his Adam’s apple against Eliot’s palm. The hummingbird pulse of his heart against Eliot’s fingertips.

“Come on. Do it. El.” Quentin urged him on, eyes wide and nearly all black. “You can use me. Love it. Love it when you do--”

After waiting so long, all the tension of watching Quentin work himself up so slowly to orgasm, Eliot was gone in the span of a minute. One hand over Quentin’s throat, the other snaking down to press over the wet fabric of his underwear, Eliot rode out a jagged crest of pleasure until he was coming with a cry of Quentin’s name. Everything whited out. He was left with nothing but a quivering body and Quentin whispering to him so many things Eliot would think about in the dead of night, things that would populate his dreams.

Eventually Eliot rolled onto his back with a great big sigh. He’d thoroughly ruined the inside of his silk boxers, could feel come cooling against his skin in a way that made him shiver despite the warmth in the attic room.

“I think I owe Julia some kind of gift basket.” Eliot said, reaching blindly for his cigarette case from the bedside table. He snapped to light it, held the filter between his lips while his hands worked a cleaning tut on himself. Quentin was a lost cause. It was into the shower for him. And the smell of Quentin’s come on Eliot’s hands would remain until he jumped in as well.

“Don’t encourage her.” Quentin scooted closer and reached out a hand for the cigarette. Eliot passed it over and watched him take a long, satisfying drag before he passed it back over him. “She’s meddlesome.”

“She’s a wonder. Does she have any more thrilling little secrets to tell me about you?” Eliot asked.

Quentin shook his head with a little laugh. “Nothing that’s not just straight up embarrassing. That was the extent of my party tricks.”

“It was  _ one hell _ of a party trick, sweetheart.” Eliot said. Quentin scrunched up his face. Sweetheart always really got to the tender little bits of him for whatever reason. Eliot took a few more drags in silence, stubbing out the cigarette in the ashtray by his bed. “Now, my  _ own _ is much less showy, but might be more difficult--getting you into the shower before those underwear fuse to your body and have to be cut off.”

Quentin made a pathetic sound and rolled on top of Eliot. And now  _ laundry _ would need to happen. 

He couldn’t bring himself to be annoyed. 

Not when Quentin was trying to convince him that they could stay right there with whining little presses of his lips across Eliot’s jaw and seeking hands sliding into his pants.

Not when they could spend the whole afternoon thoroughly avoiding the shower until they could hop in together and really give the enchantments on the hot water pipes a run for their money.

Not when he got to have Quentin as the afternoon turned to night, and then finally Margo was pounding on the door on the bottom of the stairs demanding proof of life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Leave me a comment if you want more sweet boys living without any danger. I'm thinking of doing a series. 
> 
> Let me know any specific sexy shenanigans you want them to get into!!!

**Author's Note:**

> Because sometimes you just come to an epiphany about Quentin getting really into energy orgasms and you can't let it go! *Shrugs* Thanks hoko_onchi for the encouragement! 
> 
> Thank you for reading! I love your comments sooooo much!


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